


Poisoned by Love

by Rebelwerewolf



Series: Trash Princes vs the Disney Universe [1]
Category: Aladdin: The Animated Series, Frozen (2013), Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Disney, Awkward Flirting, False Identity, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multiple Crossovers, My First Fanfic, Post-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6411487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebelwerewolf/pseuds/Rebelwerewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the events of Frozen, Hans finds a mysterious stranger in the forest.<br/>(A Kylux Disney AU where Hux is Hans and Kylo is Mozenrath.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poisoned by Love

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by http://seriousmelam.tumblr.com/post/141732003713/rebelwerewolf-the-trash-awakens-lonewizzy

_My brothers are fools_ , Hans thought as he trudged through the forest, stepping carefully over roots and ducking under low branches. Even though the spring afternoon was chilly, sweat plastered his red hair to his forehead and soaked his cotton tunic. For his actions in Arendelle, each of his twelve brothers had assigned him one punishment, and he was now close to completing the last. Rather than make him feel remorse, however, the punishments only deepened his resentment and his resolve.

 _They should have banished me or even executed me. That’s what I would have done. But they’re soft and weak, poisoned by love._ Hans smirked. _When I am King, I will have no such weakness._

Hearing a noise somewhere in front of him, Hans crouched behind a large fern and prepared himself to complete his final task. He dipped a dart into a vial of tranquilizer poison and inserted the projectile into his blowgun. What felt like minutes passed as Hans waited anxiously for the great wolf he was hunting.

The locals called it the Night Wraith and described it as a black wolf with demonic, glowing eyes. Officially it was responsible for twenty-eight livestock deaths, but the superstitious townsfolk also believed that its gaze could steal human souls. Success at this task would mean not only the end of Hans’s punishments but also being hailed as a hero, and he could really use a boost in reputation.

His leg muscles were starting to cramp from crouching, so he shifted uncomfortably to his knees, snapping a twig in the process. Hans tensed. If everything he had heard about the Night Wraith was true, there would be a very thin line between being the hunter and the hunted. _Still…_ he thought, _maybe I can lure it to me._

Hans rolled up his left sleeve to his elbow and made a superficial cut using his pocket knife. Surely the scent of blood would attract the predator. No sooner than he had returned his knife to its sheath did he hear a rustle in the undergrowth. Something was moving toward him. Hans aimed his blowgun steadily and held his breath.

Hans shot as soon as he saw the shadow push its way past the vegetation. The dart flew true, hitting its target with a satisfying “thwack.” A moment later, he heard the “thump” of a body hitting the forest floor. He rose with a slight limp as blood returned to his legs and walked cautiously toward the downed body, gripping his knife tightly. He couldn’t be sure that the tranquilizer was fully effective, and it was always better to be careful.

An involuntary gasp escaped Hans’s lips before he could clamp his hand over his mouth. The body lying on the ground was not a wolf – it was a young man around Hans’s age. His pants and tunic were dyed a deep purple and looked like they might once have been luxurious but were now little more than rags. He wore one soft shoe that curled at the tip; the other shoe was missing, and the man’s bare foot was cut and bloodied. A torn black cloak was spread around his shoulders like the wings of a fallen angel. Adding to the effect was the man’s long mane, fanning out from his face in a halo the color of midnight sky. He had a too-long nose, a too-large mouth, and his milky skin looked like it hadn’t seen the sun in years, but Hans found the combination to be rather attractive.

He quickly labeled the thought as a weakness and pushed it aside, instead contemplating the mysterious man’s origins. His clothes clearly indicated that he was from a foreign land. Could he be a lost merchant, perhaps attacked by a predator? Or, and Hans hardly dared to hope, could the man be a lost prince whose kingdom would reward his return handsomely? Either way, Hans couldn’t leave the unconscious man lying among the trees, especially not with the Night Wraith still out here. He resolved to take the man back to the small village bordering the forest for the night.

The sun had vanished by the time Hans made his way back to town carrying the stranger. He had to stop several times to rest and shift the limp body to a different position – the man was heavier than he looked. Nevertheless, Hans was proud of his accomplishment. Growing up a prince, he was unaccustomed to physical labor, but serving his punishments over the last few years had increased his strength and stamina. He imagined that his brothers would not have fared as well in this situation.

The innkeeper was preparing to lock the doors for the night when Hans burst in, cradling the strange man in his arms. “Hux, what happened?” the bespectacled, elderly man inquired urgently. For a moment, Hans didn’t realize that he was being spoken to. He had given the false name “Hux” when he arrived at the inn the previous day because it simply would not do to have the townsfolk realize that he was the disgraced prince. They would have either been unwelcoming or far too eager to help with his task, and Hans much preferred to stay unnoticed. He was currently failing at this objective, as the old innkeeper, the patrons eating their supper, and the statuesque, platinum-haired barmaid were all staring at him.

Taking a deep breath, Hans summoned as much composure as he could in his current state. He decided that there would be no harm in telling the truth, and besides, he was far too tired to think of a convincing enough lie. “I shot this man in the woods with my blowgun. It was an accident – I thought he was a wild animal. I’m taking him to my room. He’ll wake once the tranquilizing poison has worn off.”

“Oh, and Phasma?” Hans addressed the barmaid. “I’ll take my evening meal in my room tonight. Please bring a second plate in case my friend here wakes up.” Turning, he pointedly ignored the curious crowd and clomped up the stairs to his rented room.

* * *

The room was impressively furnished for an inn in a small town on the edge of civilization. Hans may have used a false name to disguise his identity, but he had no desire for asceticism and had rented the largest and most costly quarters in the establishment. The wooden bed, a night stand, and a wardrobe were pushed against the far wall. Next to the door stood a small desk and a single hard chair. In the corner, behind a partition, sat a metal bathtub with clawed feet.

Still, there was no obvious place to lay an unconscious body, and Hans was loathe to have the man’s unwashed grime touch his clean bed sheets. He briefly considered stripping the man of the ragged remains of his clothing and bathing him, but the excited flush that crept into his cheeks let him know that it was a bad idea. He settled for dumping the stranger in a semi-seated position into the tub, his long legs dangling off the edge. The man’s head flopped back, exposing his smooth, pale throat. He had not shown any signs of waking from the induced slumber, but at least he was clearly breathing.

Hans didn’t have much time to contemplate his next move before there was a knock at the door. It was Phasma, with two plates of food balanced on one arm and a full mug of ale in the other. “You look like you could use a drink, sir,” she explained gently. “It’s on the house.”

“Thank you.” Hans gave a small smile and motioned for her to set the suppers on the desk.

“Do you need anything else, sir?” She inclined her head downward to look at him. Hans was taller than most men, but Phasma towered over him in her high-heeled boots, and he suspected that even without the boots, he would have had to tilt his head up to look her in the eyes.

Hans started to shake his head no, but he caught sight of the odd man in the bathtub, and on a whim he asked, “Do you recognize him?”

“No,” Phasma replied.

 _Of course not_ , thought Hans. _She’s just a barmaid._

But Phasma surprised him by continuing, “I don’t recognize the man, but his clothing looks like an ancient style from the Seven Deserts. See the tabard?” She pointed at the flap of tattered, gold-embroidered cloth that was held in place by a thick belt. “It would have been worn by a knight or a sorcerer.”

Hans blinked at her. “How do you know this?”                                               

“I wasn’t always a bar wench, you know.“ Phasma smirked, a twinkle in her eye. “In a former life, I was a mercenary.” Without pausing to take a breath, she smoothly directed the conversation away from her past. “But what I don’t understand about this man is that his clothing is outdated by a millennium.  You wouldn’t see it in the Seven Deserts outside of a museum.”

There was a short silence, and Hans’s mouth suddenly felt dry. Taking a gulp of ale, he frowned and went for the most sensible answer. “So he’s an actor or part of some historical re-enactment troupe.”

“That seems reasonable, sir.” She refused to meet Hans’s eyes. “But I’m sure you’ve heard what happened in Arendelle a few years ago. You can never be too careful, Mr. Hux.”

At that moment, Hans realized that Phasma knew exactly who he was; his initial assessment of her as a simple, small-town girl had been entirely inaccurate. He needed to make sure she didn’t betray his identity. He also needed some time alone to ponder how to deal with the mysterious man before he awoke. Pressing a handful of coins, much more than the meals were worth, into Phasma’s palm, he dismissed her with a polite, “Thank you, my sweet girl. Now if you’ll be so kind, I should like to eat my supper before it gets cold.”

Hans dragged the room’s sole chair to the side of the bathtub and ate his meal of cured salmon, crisp-crusted bread, and vegetables while observing the enigmatic stranger. He noted with initial concern that the man’s entire right arm was amputated past the bicep. There was no blood, though, so he assumed it was an old injury and not presently life-threatening. Hans found himself focusing on the man’s hair and wondered if the dark curls were as soft as they looked.

As if the stranger had read Hans’s thoughts, he stirred slightly, long lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he attempted to open his eyes. Hans held his breath in anticipation and set his half-finished plate on the floor. The man forced his eyes open with great effort, as if his eyelids were heavy as rocks, and a quiet groan emitted from his beautifully plush lips. Honey colored eyes, flecked with hints of green-gold, scanned the room and settled on Hans’s face. The stranger froze and then tried to scramble away, resulting in him tumbling further into the tub in an undignified heap.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Hans, as much for his own benefit as for the other man’s. “You’re safe here.”

“Safe…” rasped the stranger, his voice gravelly from disuse. He followed this up with a spasm of coughs, and Hans tilted his mug to the other man’s lips, allowing him to drink. The man sputtered and spat before crying out in a louder, angrier voice, “What is this drink?! Are you trying to poison me?”

Hans barely had time to be offended by the man ruining his beer before amusement took over. “My good sir, the only reason you are here is because I poisoned you earlier – an accident, I assure you. The rest of my evening has been spent trying to help you recover from the poison. The drink is merely beer.”

“I don’t drink beer,” the man in the tub muttered sullenly with a pout. It was getting more and more difficult for Hans to tear his gaze from those lips.

He stood from his chair abruptly. “Wait here, I’ll bring you something else.”

“Where would I go?” the stranger responded sassily as he watched Hans retreat from the room.

At this late hour, the downstairs dining room was empty of patrons. Phasma looked up from wiping tables as Hans rushed toward her. “He’s awake. Do you have any tea or water?”

Setting aside her cleaning rag, Phasma poured a cup of tea and handed it to Hans. “Please remember what I said earlier, sir.”

* * *

A part of Hans had hoped that when he returned to his room, the dark-haired man would be gone, but he opened the door to find the man seated in the chair Hans had vacated.  He had tossed his single remaining shoe aside and propped his bare feet up on the edge of the tub. The second plate of food was in his lap, and he was busily shoveling food into his mouth with his left hand, forgoing the use of utensils. Noticing Hans entering, the other man turned his head toward the door and teased in a bass-baritone, “Don’t you knock?”

“This is _my_ room,” Hans answered stiffly. “And I brought you some tea. You should be more grateful.”

“Grateful, hmm? Grateful that you shot and poisoned me?” The man didn’t even wince as he pulled the dart out of his calf, starting a thin trickle of blood that dripped down his leg and into the tub. Hans tried to pretend to be unbothered.

“I said it was an accident,” Hans protested.

“That’s not the same as apologizing.” The man turned his attention back to his food, chewing and swallowing intently.  

 _Surely there could be no harm in apologizing for an honest mistake_ , Hans reasoned. “Okay. I apologize.”

The other man grunted. “Apology accepted. I’ll take the tea now.” He beckoned Hans to come closer.

“You’ll… you’ll _what_?” This impertinence had gone on long enough, and Hans could not bear to take another minute of it. He puffed up his chest and momentarily succumbed to his rising anger. “Don’t you know who I am?” As soon as the question left his mouth, he cringed and wished he could un-ask it.

The seated man rose abruptly, ignoring the plate that fell from his lap and clattered on the floor. He stalked over to Hans and leaned in close, their noses almost touching. “I don’t care who you are,” he snarled. “Don’t _you_ know who _I_ am?” Without waiting for a response, he whispered ominously, “I am Mozenrath.”

Hans could feel the other man’s hot breath on his face. Adrenaline surged through his veins as his body prepared for a fight. The name sounded familiar, but it took him a moment to place where he had heard it before. He furrowed his brows in confusion. “Mozenrath? Like the fairy tale?”

“Do I look like a fairy tale?” Mozenrath growled. Hans pictured the first time he had laid eyes upon his opponent, how serene and beautiful he had looked. Bizarrely, he found the man handsome even with his face flushed and contorted in a menacing mask.

 _Yes_ , Hans wanted to say. _You could be_ my _fairy tale._ “No,” he sneered instead. “You look like an ill-mannered child.”

Mozenrath roared in anger and instinctively raised his right arm toward Hans as if to lift him by the neck. He only succeeded in delivering a sharp blow to the redhead’s throat with the stump where his arm used to be. Hans fell backwards, splashing the piping hot tea across the other man’s face as he reflexively shielded his head.

Hans had thought Mozenrath was already angry, but his original foul mood paled in comparison to the rage he now entered. The redhead had to duck away as the other man smashed the chair into the bedroom door, sending splinters flying everywhere. The partition fell victim next, shattered against the metal tub as Hans scurried out of range. A strong kick from one of Mozenrath’s long legs toppled the desk and sent it crashing into the wall.

 _I need a weapon_ , Hans thought as he frantically scanned the ruined room. He spotted his saving grace propped up next to the bed and dove to grab it. As the dark-haired menace whirled to focus on him, Hans launched a dart from his blowgun.

The pandemonium had alerted Phasma, who flung the bedroom door open to find Mozenrath slumped on the floor in the middle of the room, once again unconscious. Furniture was strewn about in various states of disrepair. Hans sat with his back against the far wall, gripping his blowgun with both hands and trembling. “Mr. Hux –“ she began before Hans cut her off.

“I’ll pay for all the damages,” he said, glassy-eyed and breathing hard.

“If there’s anything –“

“Bring me a book of fairy tales and a pot of coffee.” Hans ran a hand through his disheveled hair as the beginnings of a plan stirred in his mind. He wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight, but there would be plenty of time for sleeping later if his strategy was successful.

* * *

“Good morning, beautiful,” Hans taunted as Mozenrath blearily opened his eyes and squinted at the pale sunlight streaming through the window. The copper-haired man smiled in amusement as his opponent slowly realized that he was tied to the bed frame, thrashed against his restraints, and then gave up, exhausted by the effort.

“If I had my gauntlet…” Mozenrath trailed off, gritting his teeth and fuming.

Hans reached to caress the defenseless man’s raven hair. Mozenrath hissed and tried to turn his head away, but the grip in his hair tightened, forcing him to look at his captor. “Ah yes, the gauntlet. It’s all written in the fairy tale,” Hans declared. “Once upon a time, there was a dark sorcerer named Mozenrath who had the ability to absorb and amplify magic from enchanted artifacts. He was defeated by Aladdin and his genie, stripped of the gauntlet that gave him his powers, trapped in a cage, and sent far, far away from the Seven Deserts.”

The bound man started to protest, but Hans gave a disapproving tut. “I didn’t say you could speak yet. This fairy tale was supposed to have taken place one thousand years ago.”

“One thousand years?!” Mozenrath cried out in shock. “You’re telling me –“

Hans used the opportunity to place a single finger forcefully against the other man’s soft lips to shush him. He felt the teasing flicker of the man’s tongue against his digit and abruptly withdrew his hand with a sharp inhale. Mozenrath looked so pleased with himself that Hans wanted to strangle him.

Trying to mitigate his shame at having succumbed to a moment of weakness, he took a deep breath and resumed. “More recently – _much_ more recently – a young prince of the Southern Isles was denied the chance to marry the Princess of Arendelle by her witch sister. If you are indeed who you say you are, I have a proposition for you. Now tell me; _are_ you Mozenrath?”

“Yes,” Mozenrath replied defiantly. “Is this what this is all about? Wooing your true love?”

Hans guffawed so hard that tears filled his eyes. Finally, he managed to stop and take a deep breath, grinning. “Princess Anna is not my true love. Even if I did believe in love, she’s not my type. But what she did have was a kingdom. Of course, her sister the witch is queen now, and it would be awfully convenient if you could, ah, divest her of her magic.” Mozenrath’s silence left Hans confused until he remembered that he had ordered the restrained man not to speak without explicit instruction. Hans basked in smug self-satisfaction; he could work with a man who followed orders. “Any questions?”

He had expected the response to be “What’s in it for me?” or “What makes you think I can do that?” or even a critique of his plan, but he had _not_ expected a cheeky “What _is_ your type?” and a single raised eyebrow. Hans realized that his grasp in the other man’s hair had loosened. His fingers were still tangled in the soft waves, but he was no longer forcing Mozenrath to look at him.

 _Men with silken hair the color of midnight, ivory skin punctuated by beauty marks, expressive hazel eyes, and plush lips_ , thought Hans. “Ambitious,” he said instead. “Goal-oriented. Ruthless. Someone who commands respect.” The man on the bed blushed as furiously as if Hans had voiced his true opinions. _If his magical powers involve mind reading, I’m going to be in trouble._

After a long, pensive silence, Hans spoke again. “I’m still waiting for your response. Shall we be partners in this endeavor?”

The raven-haired man smirked slyly, showing his fantastic dimples. “Partners? That’s quite a commitment. I don’t even know your name. Unless you want me to call you Prince Gingersnap?”

Hans huffed, but he couldn’t hide the traitorous blush that colored his cheeks. “No, my name is –“ He paused to consider the path that was unfolding before them. “From now on I’m not a prince. You can call me Hux. Maybe someday if we’re wildly successful, you can call me Emperor.”

“Ooh, false identities,” purred Mozenrath. “How very villainous of us.”

Hans suppressed an urge to groan and roll his eyes. “I could leave you tied up, you know.”

The captive man’s voice was smooth and alluring. “Mm, you really couldn’t. You need me for my magic… partner.”

“All right,” grumbled Hans. “Just don’t break anything else. I have to pay for all the damage you caused last night.” He started to undo his handiwork.

The redhead felt Mozenrath’s hand graze his, and for a moment, all he could hear was the thunderous pounding of his own heart. “Hux, are you listening? What do you think of Kylo? Do you think it suits me?”

“Well, it’s certainly easier to say than Mozenrath,” Hans said, chuckling. He intertwined his fingers with the other man’s. This – whatever this was – didn’t feel like the weakness he had feared. Instead, it felt like strength. It felt powerful. Hans – no, he was Hux now – grabbed his partner’s hand and led him off the bed and to the door. “Come on. There’s a whole new world out there for us to conquer.”

THE ~~END~~ BEGINNING


End file.
